


Shades of Blue

by TheAsexualofSpades



Series: Quarantine Drabbles [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Artist Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Fluff, I love them so much, It's so cute guys they're so cute, M/M, Markus is a baby gay, Simon's good at emotions, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:15:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23346034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAsexualofSpades/pseuds/TheAsexualofSpades
Summary: Markus has a lot on his plate. The future of the android race is heavy and he's more than capable of bearing it.His own feelings are a little more complicated, especially when he can't spare a second to think about it.He needs a break.
Relationships: Markus/Simon (Detroit: Become Human)
Series: Quarantine Drabbles [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677655
Comments: 3
Kudos: 113





	Shades of Blue

**Author's Note:**

> I've read so much stuff about Simon being a baby gay who doesn't really know how to deal with his emotions and this???makes no sense to me??? Come on, guys, he was a caretaker android and his main thing during the whole game is taking care of his people. He gets emotions. 
> 
> Let's have Markus being the baby gay this time.

Fandom: DBH

Prompt: “I think I love you.”

* * *

Markus slams his head against the desk, groaning.

“Rough day?”

“You have _no_ idea,” he grumbles, “well, actually, yeah you do.”

“Considering I’m the one who’s been sitting next to you through everything,” Simon says, patting his shoulder, “yeah, I kinda do.”

“Do you still—“

“Your drafts are waiting for when you need to review them, there’s a glass of thirium on the other end of your desk, and—“ Simon pauses to lift Markus’ head to examine him with careful eyes— “you’ve not damaged yourself.”

He feels his shoulders relax, tension seeping out through the delicate touch under his chin. “What would I do without you?”

“You would survive,” Simon says dismissively, dropping his hand and picking up another tablet, “although you wouldn’t be able to be _nearly_ as passive-aggressive.”

“Are all PL600s as sassy as you?”

“I’m sure you could run a survey of all of us, but that would be an…interesting choice to make in terms of time management.”

“See, now you’re just doing it on purpose.”

Simon tilts his head, the mischievous glint in his eyes undermining the otherwise perfectly innocent look on his face. “Doing what?”

“Sometimes I think _you_ should be the one doing all this stuff,” Markus grouses, taking a sip of thirium.

“You’re the speech-maker, Markus,” Simon corrects softly, “you'll see to it that our people get rights, that they’re taken care of. _I’m_ here to see that _you’re_ taken care of.”

All teasing gone, Markus looks up at his friend. It’s so easy for Simon to just _say_ things like that, like it doesn’t take him a moment to process how much he cares. He doesn’t know what that means; he’s interacted with a few other PL600s after they’d gone deviant, he hasn’t seen this in them. Well, that’s not true.

It’s hard for him to tell the difference between androids that care about him because he’s their ‘leader’ or ‘savior’ of whatever, and those that care about _him._ He can only think of a few that fall into that latter category without hesitation. North. Josh. Connor. Kara.

And Simon.

“Come on,” Simon says, snapping him out of his musings with a light tap on his arm, “let’s get you outside for a bit. Movement’ll do you good.”

He lets himself be shepherded outside, Simon’s hand on his elbow even though they both know the way. It’s a comforting weight, both physically and mentally, that he doesn’t have to try and be a leader right now. He can let Simon guide him to the small grove of trees on the outside of their building.

Simon drops his hand once they reach the small path, choosing to meander around the blossoming trees until he finds a spot to stand. Markus watches fondly as Simon closes his eyes, tilts his head back, letting the breeze ruffle his hair. It’s one of the only times he gets to watch Simon instead of the other way around.

The gaze of the world is heavy, Simon’s gaze is light.

He has no idea what his own feels like.

North says it feels like a promise, that he’s there to make sure they get what they deserve. Josh says is feels like a question, asking people to do the right thing. Connor says it’s a similar scan to his own.

There are a few too many implications behind that statement.

“I brought you out here to relax,” comes the gentle chide, “not find something else to stress about.”

He blinks, registering the hand proffered in front of him. Simon waggles his fingers, a silent request for Markus to take his hand. He pulls the other android around the tree, placing them both directly in a beam of sunlight.

“Look up,” he encourages.

Markus’ thirium reactor stutters, internal diagnostic waved away in favor of looking through the layers of white, green, yellow, and finally blue as the sunlight filters through the tree’s limbs.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Yes,” Simon agrees, “it is.”

They spend a few more minutes like that, heads back, back of their hands brushing, listening to the breeze rifling through the petals like loose change.

When the sun shifts and the beam moves, Simon nudges him to sit on the nearby bench. They don’t speak as they sit down, gazes moving to look over the rest of the trees. A bluebird perches on one of the branches, calling for its mate. The azure feathers stand out against the emerald backdrop. It ducks its beak into its wings, preening.

“I wish I could capture this somehow,” Simon murmurs, breaking the delicate silence.

“Can’t you just access it in your memory?”

“The pure facts of the moment, yes,” Simon continues, eyes fixed on the bird, “but the substance, the _flavor_ of it, I can’t preserve.”

“‘Flavor?’”

Simon glances back at him, then at the bird. “Right now, I feel _light._ Like the hollow bones in the bird’s skeleton could just…lift me right up. The way the sun looks…the warmth of it.”

He glances down at Markus’ hand laid over the back of his. “When I play it back, I won’t have that. I’ll just have a bird preening its wings on a tree branch.”

The disappointment in his friend’s voice tenses Markus’ hand, itching for a paintbrush. To capture the _feeling_ of a moment, that is the point that Carl always told him to find.

“Like right now,” Simon says again, quieter this time, creating their own little bubble of intimacy in the garden.

“Right now?” Markus echoes.

“Right now.” Simon flips his hand, pressing their palms together. It’s chaste, they aren’t even interfacing, but the light press of their hands makes Markus’ head spin. “When I play this back, I’ll just see us holding hands. But I won’t get—“

He cuts himself off and Markus can’t help but lean a little closer, hoping that it’ll be enough to show he’s _really really invested in whatever Simon was going to say._

“…get what, Si?”

Simon draws a deep, slow breath and lets it out gradually.

“What’s your core temperature right now?”

“What?” Markus blinks, disoriented by the sudden shift in conversation.

“Your core temperature, what is it?”

“98.3ºF, why?”

“Mine is 97.6ºF,” Simon says quietly, “but does it _feel_ like it?”

No, no it doesn’t. His hand feels like it’s on fire and in a bucket of ice at the same time, every nerve tingling where it’s pressed against Simon’s.

“See,” Simon continues, seeing Markus’ hesitation, “I can’t get that when I play the memory. I can’t feel it. So I have to try and remember as much of it as I can while I _have_ it.”

“…I think I understand.”

“What,” his friend smiles, “don’t you have feelings that you want to hold onto? Isn’t that what you put down on your canvas?”

He’s right, as usual. But painting gets the emotion _out,_ away from him, into a tangible form. Something so other people can understand what he’s feeling. It doesn’t necessarily make him understand it any better. He says as much to Simon who nods.

“Is there one you keep painting more than others? Some feeling you keep coming back to?”

Markus squints in concentration. Is there? He flicks through the series of paintings he’s done, looking for anything that seems like a common thread. He can always remember what he was feeling when he looks back at the paintings, he just can’t re-feel it.

Then he notices something.

There’s always something with the same color blue in each of his paintings. A flower here, a speck of color in an eye there. It never looks exactly the same because of how the other colors look around it, but it’s always the same paint. The same blue.

“I think I’ve found something,” he says, “but I don’t know what it means.”

“What is it?”

“It’s this blue color, it keeps coming up.”

“Is it always noticeable?”

“No, not always. Sometimes I have to really look for it, like it’s there but…just under the surface.”

“Are there any points where it’s really obvious?”

“Not yet, I—“ Markus cuts himself off.

It’s a painting he did just yesterday. Two hands, curled together, fingers interlocked so tightly it’s hard to tell exactly whose is whose. One of the hands is a dark burnt orange, the same color as Jericho’s rusted walls.

The other is that wonderful, maddening, _mesmerizing_ blue.

“Uh, yeah, I just found one.”

“May I see?”

“Um…” Normally Markus has no hesitation about showing his paintings. He hangs them up in his office, for crying out loud. But this…this feels different.

“You don’t have to,” Simon reassures, “but…can I ask you some questions about it?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure.”

“When did you paint it?”

“Yesterday.”

“What time yesterday?”

“After that call with the mayor’s office about the new legislation.”

“What is the painting of?”

Markus swallows, forcing his throat to cooperate. “Two hands.”

Simon gives his shoulder a small nudge. “What’s the blue in the painting?”

“…one of the hands.”

“What do you think you were feeling that made you use that color blue?”

Markus looks at the painting. He looks at the bluebird, still calling for its mate. He looks at the sky, stretching up into the empty.

He looks at Simon.

The painting is still overlaying his HUD, the hands hovering in the corner of his vision. Simon tilts his head, waiting. His eyes are so _blue._

“I think I love you,” Markus blurts, thirium rushing to his face.

Simon blinks, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Well, that was direct,” he laughs, giving Markus’ hand another squeeze, “is that what the blue means?”

“It’s the same color as your eyes,” Markus admits, averting his gaze.

“Markus,” Simon calls, waiting for him to look back up, “I love you too, it’s okay.”

“I _know_ it’s okay, I just—“

“Easy,” Simon comforts, running his thumb over Markus’ hand, “you don’t have to have all the answers or even know what’s going on. You have time.”

“…what,” Markus says weakly, “would I do without you?”

“You would survive.”

“But I wouldn’t _live._ ”

Simon’s mouth drops open, trying to form words, a light blue blush coloring his cheeks. “M-maybe not.”

He collects himself, leaning forward to rest their shoulders against each other. “…if it’s not too personal, can I see the painting?”

Markus flicks his other hand, bringing up and image of the painting. He watches Simon’s eyes grow wide, feels his hand tighten instinctively.

“…it’s so…so… _Markus…_ ”

“You like it?”

“I _love_ it, Markus.” Simon glances back up at him. “It and you.”

“I, uh, still don’t know how to uh…” Markus gestures between them— “do this.”

“Like I said,” Simon says with a smile, “you have time.”

“I don’t think I can figure it out by myself.”

Simon’s smile grows wider. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not going anywhere.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come yell at me on tumblr while we're all in quarantine. 
> 
> https://a-small-batch-of-dragons.tumblr.com/


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